Naked Pursuits

We continued in the same mould for many more days, wandering Skyrim and completing quests, before my luck finally ran out, in a manner I had not predicted.  Although I had for quite some time now ceased passing out before changing back – whereupon I had heretofore to wake up, orient myself, and find my gear – I was usually no more than a bowshot away from my stash, and almost immediately fully cognisant of myself and my surroundings.  I had also been able to plan my near-nightly hunts, so that I did not roam so far that I was not able to make it back near camp and my cache before I resumed human form, which was always involuntary, and dependent upon how much I was able to feed.

However, one night I found myself pursued by a dragon, and so – perhaps instinctively knowing I was likely no match for it alone, but more so because I had no healing potions, magic, and so on – I fled.  I know not how long or how far I loped in beast form ere I suddenly found myself once more human, and realised I was in trouble: Finding oneself completely naked, weaponless, and standing in the middle of a giant's encampment can generate solemn questions about life's priorities – but I would have to ponder them anon.

Fortunately, giants seldom attack without provocation; unfortunately, what was most likely to provoke them was coming too near their camps or mammoth livestock.  Fortunately, before attacking they tended to make threatening gestures, such as stomping, grunting, roaring, and beating the ground with their huge clubs (apparently mammoth leg bones), just as this one was.  All of which gave me the opportunity to flee, albeit not before an observation oddly came to mind that Vilja had made some while back, about having once seen a giant without its loincloth – or 'loinclothes', as she had endearingly put it.  "That was scary," she had added.

Thus, despite my predicament – or likely because of it – I was laughing, which caused me to become out of breath much quicker than I normally would have, even in human form.  As a werewolf, I could have run half the night – which I almost had, apparently – but again, luckily for me, giants were disinclined to pursue a threat once they had chased it off, unless it had done them harm, and that I was not about to do.

In any case, I was able to stop after a very short sprint – thankfully for my poor bare feet – and, finding myself near an inviting pool, relished the opportunity to relax, catch, my breath, and at least bathe the night's filth away.  I had not counted on the slaughterfish.

Savagely bitten on both legs before I managed to get out of the pool, I retrieved a stick and smashed the two voracious, ugly predators to paste as they tried to attack me even on the shore.  I fell to my naked rump in the grass, slumped supine, exhausted.  This was not good.  Yet, I was still in pain and bleeding, and so I turned to my seldom-used magic to heal myself; at least I did not need anything on my person to be able to cast simple healing spells.

As it betided – again, most fortuitously – I was able to orient myself and found I was only a league or so from camp and safety.  Even so, as I reflect on this adventure I should admit that I was quite lucky (again); I could have run into the middle of another bandit camp, this time naked and unarmed; been run down by a pack of wolves or a sabrecat; or any number of similar predicaments, few of which would turn out well.

Ever more to consider, it would seem, as I had further thoughts about my choice.

Although the questions I continued to deflect from my companions were not direct, they were becoming more and more difficult to answer, especially without a blatant lie.

"Tell me honestly," Vilja enquired one day.  "What do you think of my cooking?"  Although I replied that I quite liked it – which was the truth – she continued, "Then why do you refuse every time I offer to cook something for you?"

I quickly thought back on the past few weeks, and realised she was probably right.  An answer to this would be more problematic without, at best, stretching the truth.  "I am just not hungry, I suppose.  Or, I have just gotten myself something.  Or Lydia did."  I knew my housecarl would not gainsay me; indeed, she avoided looking at me, instead busying herself getting the axe out of her saddlebags and ostensibly going off for firewood.

"That's not it at all," Vilja remonstrated.  "I think… I think you are lying to me, and I don't know why.  There is something… something wrong, I jest know it."  Her cute Nord accent, and something else, thickened her words.

I looked up from moving large stones into a circle for the campfire.  She stood stiffly, still in her form-fitting leather armour, arms folded, crying; I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach.

"I…" I began feebly, but could not finish.

Yet, it seemed I would not have to, as she turned and fled – though it was not long until circumstance forced the truth from me.